He crushed her to him, then held her away at the hint of something unsaid. "You mean you've begun to love me?" he inquired, gladly.
"Perhaps. I don't know. SOMETHING has changed—tremendously." Under his bewildered gaze the blood rose, warming her cheeks; her eyes swam, but not with tears; her bosom was tremulous with the knowledge that clamored for freedom, and yet refused to come.
"Don't you understand, stupid?" she said, seeing him still mystified. She hid her face, then whispered in his ear, whereupon he fell to trembling, and the fervor of his embrace relaxed. He held her gently, tenderly, as if he suddenly found her to be a fragile thing.
"My dear!—my—DEAR!" And then he too hid his face as if blinded by a pitiless light. When he raised it tears glistened on his lashes and a happiness that was like pain pierced him. "Oh! If I had only known—" he choked. "Kid, what a fool I've been, never to think that this might come! I—can't believe it."
"It's true," she smiled, and her cheeks were still dyed with that virginal flush. "Perhaps that's why I've changed toward you—something HAS happened, Bob, and you mustn't leave me now. I couldn't bear to do without you."
"YOU may forgive me," he cried, "but I'll never forgive myself. To think that I should learn of this right now—after what I did. Well, I'm through making new promises; I'm going to keep some of the old ones."
"I think it's about time we both came to earth."
"No need for you—you're the sensible one. If I can't straighten up on my own account and on yours, surely I can and will for—this."
An hour later Adoree tiptoed back to the piano after a surreptitious peek into the back room, whence nothing but the faintest murmurs issued. Her face was radiant.
"You've played some high-priced divorce lawyer out of a good case, Mr. Cricket," she beamed on Campbell. "She's in his lap." Pope's rippling fingers paused, his hands dropped, and he sighed.
"I could have set them quarreling just as well, but the role of cupid suits me to-night." His shoulders drooped wearily; the feverish brightness of his eyes and the pallor of his thin face indicated that he had indeed spent all his nervous force.
"Cupid in a sweater!" Adoree exclaimed. "Well, I believe it, for your playing made me positively mushy. I've been hugging a sofa-cushion and dreaming of heroes for ever so long. Why, at this moment I'd marry the janitor."
With the eager shyness of a boy he inquired: "Do you really like to hear me play? Can I come and play for you again?"
"Not without a chaperon," she told him, positively; "wool tickles my cheek."
Pope rose hastily and in some embarrassment. He could write about love with a cynic's pen, but he could not bear to talk about it even in a joking way. He eyed the speaker with the frightened fascination of a charmed rabbit, until she laughed in mischievous enjoyment of his perturbation.
"Oh, never fear! It will take more than music to make me forget what you are. Say!" She yawned, doubled up her little fists, and stretched. "Won't you play something to make those lovers go home, so I can go to bed?"
He shook his head. "Not until we go to the nearest cafe and have a bite to eat."
"There are no cafes open at this hour."
In spite of her protestations that she was not hungry he bore her away with him, bareheaded as she was, and in the next block they found an unsuspected little place called the "Chauffeurs' Lunch," where a man was busy making sandwiches of the whitest bread and the most delicious-smelling Hamburger for a hungry cabby with a battered hat. And there they each ate a bowl of crackers and milk with a baked apple, using the arms of their chairs for tables. Pope's bill was forty cents, and, strangely enough, not even when he paid it did he remember that this was the woman for whose company at supper other men paid five hundred dollars.
Bob's work as a salesman continued to be so effective that Kurtz finally offered him a salaried position. But instead of accepting, Bob made a counter-proposition that caused the little man to gasp. Briefly, it was to extend the scope of the present business by laying in a stock of extravagant, high-priced shirt and necktie materials, with Bob as partner in the new venture. Kurtz protested that he was not a haberdasher, but he was constrained to admit that Bob had the right idea of smart business, and after some discussion accepted his employee's nonchalant offer to go halves on the new venture and share in its profits. The fact that Bob had no money with which to carry through his part of the deal troubled that youth not in the least—Kurtz's credit was ample. Bob's theory of securing the Fifth Avenue trade was to double existing prices, and if this did not bring the business, to double them a second time; and this theory was correct, as he demonstrated when the new department was organized.
But despite the excellent income he now began to make there was never anything left in the Wharton bank-account, for Bob moved his wife to a more pretentious apartment on Riverside Drive and managed to increase their expenses so as to balance his earnings very nicely. It was quite a feat to adjust a fixed outlay to a varying income so that nothing whatever should remain, and he considered it a strong proof of his capacities that he succeeded.
By Christmas the haberdashery venture had shown such a profit that he began to pile up a small bank-account in spite of himself; so he bought an automobile, which served to eat up any monthly profits and guarantee a deficit under the most favorable circumstances. Being thus relieved of financial uncertainty, he laid plans to wrest from Kurtz a full partnership in the tailoring business itself.
The Whartons' new home was charming, and Bob provided his wife with every luxury. Lorelei did not regret that she was prevented from going out as much as formerly—her experience at Fennellcourt had cured her of any desire to get into her husband's social set—and unconsciously she and Bob began to develop a real home life.
As time went on and evidences of prosperity showed themselves Lorelei's family forgot some of their dislike of Bob and became more companionable. Strangely enough, too, their cost of living increased in proportion to their friendliness; but Bob never questioned any amount they asked him for, and he swelled their allowance with characteristic prodigality.
Lorelei was proud of him, as she had reason to be, but she had occasion for sorrow as well. His generosity was really big, his pagan joyousness banished shadows, but he was intensely human in his failings, and in spite of his determination to stop drinking, in spite of all his earnest promises, the old appetite periodically betrayed him. For a month, for two months at a time, he would manfully fight his desires, then without excuse, without cause, just when he was boasting loudest of his victory, he would fall. And yet drinking did not brutalize him as it does most men; he never became disgusting; liquor intoxicated him, but less in body than in spirit. His repentance followed promptly, his chagrin was intense, and his fear of Lorelei almost ludicrous. But the girl had acquired a wider charity, a gentler patience; she grieved, she tried to help him, and his frailty endeared him to her. Love had been slow to awaken; in fact, she had not been definitely aware of its birth; but suddenly she had found it flowering in her soul, and now it flourished the more as that other interest intensified and began to dominate her.
Bob responded to all her efforts save one: she could not make him serious. On the whole, however, they were more happy than they had ever been.
One day, during the slack holiday season, Hannibal Wharton appeared at the Kurtz establishment. He appraised the elaborate surroundings with a hostile eye and stared at his son impassively.
"So! You're a seamstress now," he began, and Bob grinned. "Merkle told me you repaid his loan and had an automobile."
"That's true."
"Second-hand car?"
"No."
"How much do you owe?"
"Nothing, except for stock."
"Stock! What do you mean?"
"Kurtz and I are partners in one end of this business."
"I'll be damned!" breathed Mr. Wharton. Then he inquired, curiously,"Do you like this work?"
"It's not what I prefer, still there is a margin of profit."
"Huh! I should think so, at ninety dollars a suit. Well, this town is full of fools."
Bob agreed. "But we dress 'em better than they do in Pittsburg."
After a moment's consideration Hannibal said slowly: "Mother's at theWaldorf; she wants to see you. You've just about broken her heart, Bob."
"We're not going out much, but perhaps we could call on her—"
"'We'! I said she wants to see YOU."
"And not my wife?"
"Certainly not. Neither do I. You don't seem to understand—"
Bob answered smoothly: "Certainly I understand; you think ninety dollars is too much for a suit. Perhaps I can show you something in scarfs of an exclusive design?"
"Don't be funny!" growled his father.
"Really, dad, you'd better go. That suit of yours is a sight. Somebody may think we made it for you."
Mr. Wharton remained silent for a moment. "The situation is impossible, and anybody but you would see it. We can't accept that woman, and we won't. She's notorious."
"No more so than I—or you, for that matter."
"She's a grafter. She'd quit you if I paid her enough."
"How do you know?"
"Her mother has been to see me half a dozen times. I've offered to pay her anything within reason, but they're holding out for something big. You come back, Bob. Let her go back to her own people."
"And what's to become of the other one?" Bob was smiling faintly.
"The other one? What do you mean?"
"I mean there will be three in the family soon, dad; you're going to be a grandfather."
The effect of this announcement was unexpected. Hannibal Wharton was momentarily stricken dumb, for once he was utterly at a loss. Then, instead of raising his voice, he spoke with a sharp, stuttering incisiveness:
"So that's her game, eh? I suppose she thinks she'll breed her way into the family. Well, she won't. It won't work. I was willing to compromise before—so long as there was no tangible bond between that family and mine—but they've got their blood mixed with mine; they've got a finger-hold in spite of hell, and I suppose they'll hold on. But I won't acknowledge a grandchild with scum like that in its veins. Good God! Now listen—you." Wharton's jaw was outthrust, his gaze hard and unwavering. "No child tainted with that blood will share in one penny of my money, now or at any other time. Understand?"
"Perfectly." Bob's color had receded, but in no other way did he show his struggle for self-mastery. "My wife isn't having a baby to spite you, and if it ever needs a grandfather we'll adopt one."
"They've pulled you down into the mud; now they've tied you there. Heredity's stronger than you or I; watch your child grow up, and watch its mother's blood tell. Then remember that I tried to free you before it was too late. Well, I'm through. This settles me. Good-by, and God help you with that rotten gang." Hannibal Wharton turned and strode out of the room shaking his head and mumbling.
Jimmy Knight had fallen upon evil times. A combination of circumstances had seriously affected his mode of making a living, and that of his friends. To outward appearances the frequenters of Tony the Barber's place were as thrifty as usual, but in the pinochle-room at the rear there was gloom. Reason for these hard times lay in an upheaval of public sentiment that had galvanized the Police Department into one of its periodic spasms of activity, and the cause ran back to a sordid quarrel between two factions of the Tenderloin. At about the time when Jimmy came to New York the contention had become too bitter for the underworld to hold, and echoes of it had begun to leak out; later it culminated in the murder of the leader of one clique. Murders, it is true, are not uncommon in New York, but this one was staged in the glare of Broadway, and with a bold defiance of the law that aroused popular indignation. There followed a chain of fortuitous happenings that issued in the capture of the murderers, in a wide-spread exposure of social conditions, and in a great outburst of public indignation against a police system that allowed such abuses to exist.
Of course there came a loud protest from the guardians of the law, a frantic waving of spotless banners, and a prating of virtue; but the popular will has a way of obtaining its desires regardless of red tape, trickery, or politics, and in this case it demanded a reorganization of the department and got it.
Discipline suddenly strengthened, and as a result gambling almost ceased, wire-tapping languished, organized blackmail was conducted under cover: only crime in its crudest forms continued as usual; and it followed therefore that Jimmy Knight was not prosperous. Had it not been for his share in Bob's generosity he would have been forced to the distressing necessity of asking for employment—a thing to curdle his blood! It was characteristic of young Knight that he did not scruple to accept charity from the man he hated, although he cherished the memory of that public beating at Bob's hands and the humiliation of it gnawed him like a cancer.
More than once lately Jim had been tempted to turn his knowledge of the Hammon "suicide" into cash, but he could think of no safe and certain means of doing so until one day Max Melcher dropped a bit of intelligence that promised to open a way.
"Who do you suppose I just heard from?" Max inquired, one raw afternoon in March, when he had found Jim in their usual haunt. "Lilas Lynn."
Jim made no attempt to conceal his surprise and interest. "Where is she?"
"She wrote from Liverpool, asking for money. Can you beat that?"
"Money? Why, she had a satchel full. What's become of it?"
Melcher shrugged. "She's taken the jumps—English Derby, Paris race-meet, Monte Carlo—"
"Huh! She fished all the sucker-holes along the route, eh? Of course you cabled her a few C's?" Jim snickered.
"Do I look as if I had? She's sick, got a cough, and says it's the 'con.' She wants to come home."
Jim started. "Say, that's no hospital bark of hers; it's nothing but the coke." After a moment he asked casually, "Where's she stopping?"
"Liverpool."
"What's her address? I'll drop her a line to cheer her up."
"She wrote from the Hotel—" Melcher checked himself and shot a questioning look at his friend. "Why this sudden charity?"
Jim's gaze was bland, his tone one of wounded innocence. "Can't a guy offer to cheer—"
"You're not in the business of cheering sick dames," Melcher said, sharply. Then, after a pause, "You never came through with me, Jim. There was something phony about Lilas's get-away. She left too suddenly after the Hammon suicide, and she's been under cover now for eight months. I never got it quite right. What're you holding out?"
Jim sparred adroitly, but without effect.
"Oh! You've got an ace buried somewhere," Melcher said. "You're a shifty guy. Of course this is a friendly game we're playing, but, just the same, I never bettered a poker hand by leaving the room. I don't even turn my head to spit when I'm sitting in with a fellow like you. Lilas has got something on her mind, and I believe I'll cable her the price of a ticket."
That was enough for Jim. He began to weaken, and at last made a clean breast of all the circumstances surrounding Jarvis Hammon's death rather than risk the result of a meeting between Max and Lilas. When he had finished his story Melcher was leaning forward, his pink, smooth-shaven, agreeable face gravely intent.
"So that was the way of it. Wharton and Merkle—and a four-wheeler! ByGod! That was nervy—on Merkle's part, especially. He took a chance.And Lilas shot the old man, eh?"
"Nobody saw her do it," Jim explained. "Lorelei was in the dining-room at the time it happened, and Hammon swore he did it himself. He stood on that to the last."
"I didn't know they grew men the size of that fellow," Max mused. "After all, it's the suckers that die game. And you were going to put this over single-handed, eh?—you and Lilas, perhaps! My boy, you must learn to shoot before you go hunting. Why, there's a hundred thousand quick money in this."
"If Wharton had done the shooting or Merkle—yes."
"What's the difference who did it? Why, it's a cinch. Get this! Lilas comes home broke. She's sick, and sees the undertaker flirting with her, so she decides to spill the whole story and take the consequences—understand? It's conscience." Mr. Melcher laughed lightly at his little joke. "A sick woman's conscience is an expensive thing; it takes money to square it. Merkle won't stand, and Wharton can't, on account of his wife—your sister. He'll tap his old man, and Hannibal will loosen for the family honor. After they're dry we've got the Hammon widow to work on."
"It'll take money to do this—protection, too."
"Well, I've got both."
"I suppose we'll split three ways."
Max pursed his lips thoughtfully. "N-no; you and Lilas are broke. I've got the money and the police. I'll take half."
Jim's acquiescence to these terms came hard, and he cursed himself as a fool for putting himself at the mercy of this man. He was still raging inwardly when Melcher left to send a cablegram; but there was ample leisure for reflection during the week that followed, and, being possessed of some ingenuity, Jim had formulated a scheme before Lilas Lynn's arrival.
In due time she came, and Melcher saw her established at a modest hotel before making known in detail his intentions.
Lilas was little more than a wreck of what she had been. It seemed impossible that eight short months could have worked so great a change in one of her youth and strength. Ill she undoubtedly was. She was thin, her nerves had yielded to the ravages of the drug, and a queer, unhealthy pallor had blanched her skin; her eyes were big and feverish and restless. Only at such times as she was without cocaine did her mind suffer; when she had it she was unnaturally alert. Having lately felt the harsh grip of poverty, she was obsessed now by the need of money, and offered no objections to Max's schemes. Rather, she welcomed them fiercely. She and Max and Jim mapped out a course of action together; but a day or two later, when Jim thought the moment propitious, he secured her ear alone and gave voice to his resentment against Max.
As soon as Lilas understood his drift she met him more than half-way. She was vulture-like in her greed, and with a full understanding between them the two conspired to use Max only so long and so far as suited their purposes.
In spite of Bob Wharton's peculiarly mutable temperament he was not remiss in his duties toward Lorelei during the period that led up to the birth of their child. Utterly careless and improvident in his own affairs, he was naturally considerate of others and possessed a surprising depth of sympathy. Hence he met the responsibilities of his present situation with considerable credit.
One evening he was concerned to find his wife greatly agitated, and upon learning the cause his consternation matched hers. Lorelei's eyes were big and frightened as she explained: "Lilas is back. She was here to-day."
"Lilas? Good Lord! What did she want?"
"Nothing. She just came to see me. She's changed dreadfully, and talked about nothing except—that awful night. You remember? I'm nearly in hysterics."
"Now, that won't do. You pass your worries on to me. Lilas can't make trouble for us without making more for herself."
But Lorelei seemed oppressed with a premonition of trouble. "I'm frightened, Bob," she confessed. "She acted so—strangely. Suppose—oh, suppose I should have to go to jail now or—to court—"
Bob took his wife in his arms and did his best to cure her of these sick fancies; but it was no easy task to quiet her, for a million apprehensions had sprung into life with the reopening of that old horror. At last he reminded her gently:
"Remember, dear, your thoughts are like branding-irons just now; they leave their marks. We want our child to be brave and confident and steadfast, not a coward—or something worse. This is how cowards are made. How can a child inherit weakness when its mother is without fear?"
Profiting by this experience, Bob undertook to guard against another visit from Lilas. He was really worried, although he pretended to dismiss the matter as inconsequential, and his fears flared into full blaze again a few days later, when Jimmy Knight called upon him and announced cautiously:
"Say, you know Lilas is back. Well, she's gone off her nut—she's going to give herself up."
"Give herself up? How?"
"She's going to tell the truth about the Hammon affair. She thinks she's dying. Where do we go from here if she does that?"
Bob could not conceal his alarm, which increased when his brother-in-law begged him to do something quickly to save them all from disaster. "I wouldn't come to you," Jim confessed, candidly, "if I knew what to do; for you don't like me, and I'm not crazy about you. But we've got to stand together on account of Lorelei—not that I'd enjoy a call on the district attorney at any time."
Agreeing that there was no time to waste, the two men hastened toLilas's hotel, only to receive a greeting that was far from auspicious.When they had adroitly brought the conversation around to the point atissue Lilas explained:
"Yes, the doctors have ticketed me. They've shown me the gate." She coughed hollowly and laid her hand on her chest. "Oh, it's the white bug! That closes the show for me." She appeared very ill, and it did not occur to Bob to doubt her.
Jim began briskly: "Why, that's nothing, Lilas! Arizona is the place for you."
"Arizona is a long jump from Broadway."
"I'll help you if you need help," Bob hastened to offer.
Lilas flashed him a grateful glance from eyes that were doubly large and dark against her pallor. "You're a prince with your money, but—it's too late."
"Nonsense!"
"Oh, they'd get me sooner or later. I may as well face the music."
"Do you mean slow music? Do you mean the bugs will get you?" Jim inquired.
"No. I mean I'd have to take it on the dodge if I went, and what's the use of that? I've talked too much." With a sudden flash of feeling she cried: "I've been through hell for eight months, and I'm tired out. I came home broke, sick, thinking of that night when—you know! I seem to see HIS face everywhere. It bothers me at night. I used to dream of my father and a stream of molten steel. Well, the dreams are getting worse, only now I see Jarvis's face in place of my father's, and I tell you I can't stand it; I can't stand these dreams, and that face of his looking at me all the time. So I'm going to give myself up, have it over with, and do my penalty. Maybe I can sleep then. If my lungs hold out, all right; if they don't—well, I'll sleep anyhow. You see, I can't make a living, for I can't go back on the stage. Why, I can't leave this hotel—and take my trunks."
Jimmy Knight broke out nervously, "That penalty talk is all right for you, Lilas, but think about the rest of us."
"Yes; Lorelei, for instance," Bob added. "She isn't strong. You mustn't think of doing this thing."
"I know," Miss Lynn nodded. "I'm sorry, but—"
"I'll furnish all the money you want." She looked her gratitude again."You must buck up and try to get well."
For some time the two men jointly attempted to argue Lilas out of her black despondency, and when they left it was with a hard-won promise that she would do nothing definite at once.
Outside the room Jim heaved a sigh of relief. "Whew! I could feel the knot under my ear, but—glory to God, it slipped! Just the same, I'm going to buy some oakum and make a false beard in case she flops."
In this way the trap was set and baited so skilfully that the victim was without suspicion. That evening Lilas, Jim, and Max Melcher dined together in very good spirits; and, strangely enough, the girl showed an excellent appetite for one so troubled in soul.
Wharton was as good as his word. Not only did he put Lilas in funds, but he exerted his every power of persuasion to rouse her from her despondency and reawaken a healthy desire for life. It transpired that she had assumed some outrageous obligations, and, moreover, had hired a number of expensive lung specialists, for whom she asked him to settle; nevertheless he met her demands and was encouraged when she began to purchase a new wardrobe. Although he considered himself a spendthrift, her reckless disregard of money gave him a jolt, but he was working to gain time, and his relief on Lorelei's account deadened all other feelings.
Before long he had advanced several thousand dollars to the girl, and still her desire for martyrdom had not entirely vanished. Realizing that the mere presence of one so temperamentally hysterical as she was a constant menace, he insisted upon her going South, and in order to provide handsomely for her comfort he borrowed from his friends. He was aghast when he finally reckoned up the amount he had spent upon her.
There followed a short interval of relief, during which Lilas pretended to be making ready, then upon the very eve of her departure she sent for him in much haste and awoke him rudely from his trance.
She began by saying that his kindness and liberality had aroused in her a desire to live and to begin anew, if not for her own, then for his and Lorelei's sakes, but that she was in terrible trouble. Her punishment had sought her out after all.
It was a long time before Bob could make head or tail out of what she told him, but eventually he learned that in the hour of her deepest dejection she had confided her secret to others, and the result of this confidence had now arisen to thwart all their plans.
With a dizzy feeling of insecurity Bob asked, "Who did you tell?"
"Melcher. He sent me money to come home with, and he seemed to be my only friend."
"Friend! I thought you and he were enemies."
"Oh, he doesn't love me and he doesn't hate me," Lilas explained. "He seemed sorry for me, and I was grateful for any sympathy, no matter where it came from. You see, I didn't know what I was doing, and I didn't realize my mistake until it was too late."
"Melcher of all people!" Bob groaned.
"Wait—that's not all. You see, I wanted to go clean, and yet I was afraid of the police, so Max advised me to hire a lawyer who'd get me off light. Well, I did."
"Goldberg, I suppose." Bob breathed a malediction as Lilas nodded. "Why didn't you hire a hall or book yourself through the Lyceum Bureau?"
"Don't be hard on me." Lilas had foresworn the stage, but she did a creditable bit of emotional acting. "A frantic woman will do almost anything."
"Well, present your bill in full. What's the next misfortune?"
"I had no idea men could be so vile. Yesterday I told Max of the change in my plans; that you've made life possible to me and showed me that I couldn't go through without consequences to others. He—" She dropped her hands in a gesture of resignation. "What's the use? You know the kind of man he is."
"Go on."
Lilas began to weep silently, rocking her body to and fro. "It's just my luck—when I had another chance, too! I don't care for my own sake, but I do love—Lorelei; and you've certainly been a prince, Bob."
"Good Lord! Max can't insist on your giving yourself up. Why, that's absurd!"
"Oh, he doesn't care what becomes of me. It's—it's—" Lilas broke out in a passion: "I never thought I was putting you in his power, and—and Lorelei, too—and Jim, and Mr. Merkle. Of course you won't believe that, but I can't help what you think. I wouldn't blame you for—killing me. Why, I'd go to the chair to keep you people clear, but—those are the facts. Now you've got it all."
"Max sees money in sight, I presume?"
"That's all he sees. Money? My God! He's mad. Why he doesn't talk figures that I understand. It's nothing but blackmail, Bob, and you mustn't stand for it. He's a queer man—he helped me when I was broke; now he'd hitch me to a bull and ticket me up the river, to get that money. Why, he'd strap the coppers on my feet and turn on the juice with his own hand rather than lose this chance."
As her flow of speech died down to apologetic murmurs Bob said gravely: "I never thought Merkle and I could cover a thing like Hammon's death, but, after all, they can't do much to us."
"It's mighty kind of you to say so. I'll stand whatever comes to me; I was thinking more of Lorelei—she's in no condition—"
Bob uttered an exclamation. "You're right! We've got to gain time.After the baby's born it won't matter so much."
"Max is no fool; he won't wait. Besides, Goldberg's been to see Inspector Snell already on my account, and Snell is in the know. He's holding back warrants now for all of us. I couldn't leave town if I wanted to."
The numbing force of the calamity coming at this of all times fairly stupefied Bob, rendering him incapable of clear analysis or even of the suspicions his ordinary intelligence would have prompted.
"Why doesn't Snell get busy?" he inquired, blankly, at which Lilas lost her patience.
"Don't you see he's in on the graft? Snell doesn't want to pinch us. He doesn't care how Jarvis died, any more than Max or Goldberg cares. They want money, MONEY—coin! That's how things are run in this town, that's how the police are squared. If you don't come across they'll try to show that it was murder instead of self-defense. Remember it was my gun that killed—that did the work—and it was found in Hammon's library."
Before Bob's arrival Lilas had prepared herself for this scene by a liberal dose of cocaine, but the strain of her acting had exhausted her strength; her brain was tiring. Accordingly she excused herself, and, once in her bathroom, prepared a fresh solution of the powder, leaving Bob the while to meditate upon his plight. When she returned her eyes were brighter and she had regained the mastery of her unruly nerves. Bob looked up with a drawn expression that almost moved her to pity.
"How much do they want?" he inquired, dully.
"Don't be a fool, Bob. You helped me; I won't see you gouged. No matter what you gave they'd frame you over again. We'd better face it."
"I CAN'T face it," he cried. "Alone, I would in a minute—no court in the world would hold Merkle and me for what we did—but I can't let 'em hurt my wife and my kid. Why, Lorelei would die of fright." He choked and stammered. "They want money. How much?"
"Merkle is the man they're after."
"How much?" he insisted.
"It would take a hundred thousand to square it."
Bob gasped. "This is the worst dream I ever had."
"I told you I couldn't understand their figures. But Merkle's a millionaire. If you had ten dollars you'd give one to square a copper, wouldn't you? Well, your name's Wharton, and his is Merkle. There's fifty million dollars behind those two names, and Max knows it. If I had the price I'd pay it to save you people who helped me when I needed help, but—what have I got? I told Max he could go to hell, and you'd better tell him the same thing. Now—what do you want me to do?"
Bob's lips were white. "Stand pat and wait until I—rob a bank. I've got to buy three weeks' time, no matter what it costs."
When he had gone Lilas 'phoned first to Melcher and reported progress; then she called up Jim. The latter appeared in person that evening, and the two sat until late talking guardedly.
There was but one man to whom Bob dared appeal in this unhappy situation, and that man was John Merkle. The banker listened gravely to Bob's recital, then inquired with apparent irrelevance:
"You are mighty fond of Lorelei, aren't you?"
"Why, of course."
Merkle nodded reflectively. "I was mistaken in you," he admitted. "I didn't think the marriage would last. I suppose you are immensely pleased with yourself—reformed character, aren't you?" His face expressed a cynical inquiry.
"Pleased with myself? Not much! Lorelei reformed me. I didn't have anything to do with it."
"Good! I wondered if you took all the credit to yourself. Lorelei did do it, and I don't intend to let you forget the fact. Now, about this Lynn woman—you have been stung, Bob."
"You think so? I wonder—"
"Don't be a fool!"
"You think it is a frame-up?"
"What else could it be? Think!"
Bob exploded in desperation: "I can't think, with my wife in this condition. However, if you're right I'm going to see Max Melcher and tell him about Lorelei. Then I'm going to make him wait."
"Make him? MAKE HIM?"
"Yes, I'm going to MAKE him wait." Bob's lips were white; he raised his eyes slowly, and Merkle saw that they were heavy with resentment.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the latter. "Where is your common sense? Never use violence; it is antiquated and expensive. Suppose you let me handle this thing in my own way."
"Have you any plan?"
"I'm never without one. They're not all good plans, understand; some are very bad, in fact. But, you see, I have been expecting something like this for a long time. I saw blackmail in your brother-in-law's face the night Jarvis Hammon was killed. I don't sleep much, so I have time to think, and, being dyspeptic, I'm always suspicious. Dyspepsia has spared me many disappointments; people are never any worse than I believe them to be."
"You don't believe Jim is in this, too? Why, he is Lorelei's brother!"
"What possible difference can that make to a man of his stamp?" the banker demanded, querulously. "Don't you know your own brother-in-law? To a conscienceless rogue it's no more unnatural to conspire against one's relatives than against total strangers. It is the logical thing to do. It is nature's method of protecting the stranger, and it's one of the penalties for having relatives. You are young and sentimental, so I sha'n't tell you what my plan is. Meanwhile, though, you may tell Lilas that you have acquainted me with the situation and that I am willing to spend a lot of money to avoid publicity."
"Do you mean you are willing to pay her?"
Merkle smiled sourly. "Let her put her own construction on the statement."
Beyond this Merkle would give Bob little satisfaction, but later in the day, after a short telephone conversation, he called at one of the up-town political clubs and inquired for Senator Sabin. The Senator was expecting him, and Merkle lost no time in explaining his trouble.
Nature had endowed Sabin with the faculty of hearing more than people said and saying less than people heard. He sat now with a graven smile upon his fat, good-humored face, but with eyes that were serious and watchful. Only once did he interrupt his caller's recital, and then at the mention of Inspector Snell.
"Snell!" he exclaimed, sharply. "Are you sure?"
"So the woman says."
Sabin nodded; he carefully matched his fingers, tip to tip, and then relapsed into silence. Merkle went on with his story, feeling the while as if he were addressing an audience of two men, one a sympathetic, convivial soul, the other a baffling, sinister person behind a mask. But when Sabin finally spoke it was as neither; his voice was friendly and matter-of-fact.
"This is a bad business, John."
The banker broke out, irritably: "Now don't begin that! I have a pastor who keeps me in spiritual uncertainty, and a doctor who torments me physically, and a business that's hell in both directions. I didn't come here to swap tears; I want help."
"It may cost—"
"Of course it may. I don't expect you to square it with a bunch of double English violets, but it can be squared, and it MUST be, if only for the sake of Hammon's women folks. It won't serve any good purpose to air that old scandal."
The Senator nodded. "First we will have to eliminate the gang—clean them out." He made an expansive, eloquent gesture. "You don't object?"
"Kill 'em, if necessary," Merkle growled, vindictively.
"Very well; I'll do my best."
"Then it's done."
Merkle rose with relief, shook the Senator's limp and pudgy hand, then departed, knowing that the secret of Jarvis Hammon's death was quite as safe in Sabin's keeping as in his own. That plump, imperturbable politician had long been one of the triumvirate that ruled the city, and Merkle knew him to be the tomb of confessions far more startling than this; he knew also that although Sabin took toll of the public in the way of all powerful political rulers he put no price on his favors.
That evening Inspector Snell occupied the same chair in which Merkle had sat, and found himself the target of Sabin's veiled stare. Snell was a bulky, forceful, unimaginative man. He was vastly impressive in his uniform, but the Senator's questions appeared to bewilder him.
"What do you mean—Melcher?" the Inspector finally inquired.
"He claims you give him protection."
The officer's face purpled. "Oh! he does, does he? Well, you'd know if I did, wouldn't you? That's how them fellows get along, by selling something they can't deliver."
"Ever take any of his money?"
"Not a cent."
"What do you know about the killing of Jarvis Hammon?"
"Hammon, the steel man? Why, he wasn't killed, was he?" Snell was plainly puzzled. "Well, well!" he confessed, when the truth had been gently eased into his mind. "That's news! I'm much obliged for the tip, Senator."
"Wait a minute. That's not the idea at all," Sabin said, quickly. "The woman acted in self-defense."
"Ha! They all do. I'm thinking about myself. These are big names—this is a big case, and it will do me a lot of good to work it out."
"It will break you," the Senator murmured, quietly. "You are getting ahead just as fast as it is possible, Snell. Cut out this grave-robbing stuff and make some real friends. Understand? You need friends of the right sort, and this is your chance."
For some time longer the two men talked guardedly. At last the Inspector rose to leave, saying: "I think I have all the details now, and I'll scatter the gang as quick as possible. I can hang something on the woman easily enough, and the boys, too, but it's different with Max. He has a drag."
"Leave Max to me. Do you need money?"
"Not from your friends, Senator," the officer disclaimed, hastily. "I'm only too glad to help out in any way I can."
To Bob Wharton the suspense of the next few days was trying in the extreme, particularly as Merkle kept declaring there was nothing to report, while Jimmy Knight betrayed an apprehension so pitiable as well-nigh to banish suspicion of his complicity in the plot. But before long there came to pass in various quarters certain events which gave Bob cause for thought. Strangely enough, these events, one and all, had some effect, either direct or indirect, upon the habitues of Tony the Barber's place. To begin with, Tony himself was summoned to headquarters and forced to spend a distressing half-hour with a harsh, ill-natured police official, as a result of which the pinochle-room at the rear of the barber-shop was closed and the door nailed up. With an unnatural show of indignation Tony warned its frequenters to stay away from his shop. Naturally he had recourse to Melcher, who promised to square the misunderstanding. But for once Melcher failed. When his efforts proved fruitless he was puzzled. So was Tony. The man upon whom Max relied for help was likewise at a loss, and finally hazarded the opinion that Tony must have made an enemy of somebody "higher up."
This chilling phenomenon was still a subject of discussion when Armistead was arrested for selling cocaine. Now Armistead's addiction to the drug was well known—in fact, he readily confessed to it—but, knowing only too well the risks involved in its sale, he had never even contemplated such a thing. He was outraged and incredulous, but a dope-shattered derelict swore out a complaint against him, and when Armistead's room was searched, strange to relate, the police discovered a considerable amount of cocaine concealed therein. Bail was fixed at an unusually high figure even for a felony, and Max Melcher wondered vaguely as he arranged to meet it.
Misfortunes multiplied rapidly. On the very next day Young Sullivan was caught picking pockets in the Times Square Subway station and once more Max was forced to journey jail-ward. Sullivan's story gave his chief still more occasion for thought, for this arrest seemed plainly "a frame," being absurd upon its face. The pugilist had huge, misshapen paws that could scarcely explore his own, much less another's pockets, and his stiffened fingers could not palm a coin in the dark, yet a stranger had accused him of deftly lifting a watch. It seemed significant that two plain-clothes men should have been at Sullivan's elbow at the moment. The prize-fighter had acted according to his nature, and a fine row had resulted, in the midst of which there had dropped out of his clothes a gold watch which Sullivan violently protested he had never seen before. His imperious demand upon Max for help was resentfully couched, but Melcher dared not refuse to act as his bondsman.
Max was worried when he left the jail, and his perturbation increased when he discovered late that night that Armistead had disappeared, with the evident intention of jumping his bond. Convinced now that something must be badly out of joint, he lost no time in warning Lilas Lynn to go slow with her blackmailing enterprise. Indeed, he ordered her to drop it entirely until he had time to discover where the trouble lay.
Upon the girl this command had an unexpected effect; for not only did it prove to her that Max had lost his pull at headquarters, but it also strengthened her determination to betray him in accordance with Jimmy Knight's suggestion. Why, indeed, should she share her gains with anybody? If Max had no right to any part of the loot what possible claim had Jim to share in it? Once Lilas's cupidity was aroused it banished even that meager ghost of honor that is supposed to prevail among thieves; and, disregarding Max's caution, she decided to take things entirely into her own hands, riding this wave of success to the finish. Accordingly she sent for Bob.
It did not take her long to see that Wharton had changed since their last interview, and accordingly she did not put herself to the trouble of acting—in fact, Bob allowed her no opportunity of doing so.
"Now don't give me that stall about Melcher," he said, in answer to her first inquiries "I'm on."
Miss Lynn's cheeks had lost the power of changing color, but her eyes were as expressive as ever, and now as she stared at her victim they showed a certain inflexibility of purpose.
"You must have been talking to Merkle," she said, slowly.
"Exactly. He's not such a fool as I am."
"Well?" There was an insolent rising inflection in Lilas's voice. "What are you going to do about it?"
Bob had prepared himself for some denial, for some pretense of ignorance, at least, and he was taken aback at this ready acceptance of his challenge. Something malevolent in her air increased his uneasiness. The girl was as hard as flint and seemed capable of any desperate action.
"You say you love Lorelei; you pretend to be grateful to me—"
As if the mere heat of his accusation had ignited her fury Lilas interrupted him angrily: "Oh, cut out that love-and-gratitude talk! I want money, do you understand? MONEY! You think I won't dare go through with this, and so does Merkle. You, neither of you, can understand why I'll take a chance on 'the chair' just to make you pay. Well, that's because you are men, and because you are healthy and happy and have something to live for. But what have I got? I'm sick. I'm going to pieces. I'll be gone in a few years if I don't get the coin. I've always fought and I've usually been licked, but I won't be licked this time. Men like you and John Merkle licked me—Why, I was licked before I had learned to fight back, and you taught me to hate you before I had put on long dresses."
"You know that's not true!" Bob cried, sharply. "You harmed men before they ever harmed you. You hated Jarvis Hammon, and yet he did more for you than any one in all your life; Merkle helped you, too, when you needed help, and so did I. Lorelei was your friend—"
"Bah! I haven't any friends; I never had any, and I don't want any now. Nobody ever did anything for me. You and John Merkle are going to pay me for what other men have put me through. Oh, come, I'm not bluffing! You're afraid to stand the gaff, but I'm not. I'm getting old. My looks are gone. Who's going to pay me if you don't? Who—" Lilas's voice, which has risen steadily, broke now, and she shook a clenched fist in Wharton's face. He saw that she had worked herself up into one of her abrupt, reasonless rages.
"I've got you!" she keened. "I can drag you and your sick wife, and Merkle, and those Hammon women out into the light, and I'll do it, too. I can make you all squirm, so let's get down to cases. There's millions of dollars among you, millions that were squeezed out of my kind of people; now I'm going to try my hand at squeezing. If I lose—very well. But I'll holler, and you'll have to stop my mouth or the world will hear. You don't dare holler."
"I'm glad you're in the open at last," Bob told her, roughly. "We'll see if Melcher is as desperate as—"
"To hell with Melcher!" screamed the girl. "He's a fool. He's scared already, but I'm not, and I'm the one to settle with, remember that." She was a-quiver now; her nerves, tortured from overstimulation, were jumping; but she felt a tremendous sense of power, together with a contemptuous disregard of consequences. "Go to Max, if you want to. Sound the alarm. Do anything you please," she mocked, "but get your pennies together or I'll bawl you out from the housetops."
There was no arguing with her, as she was drunk with the sense of her advantage, and Bob could only depart, his ears ringing unpleasantly with her threats.
As to just what effect her unrestrained spleen would have, or in which direction it might work the greatest damage, he was uncomfortably in doubt. For himself, he had no particular fears, but he dreaded terribly the effect upon his wife. It seemed to him, therefore, that the only way of gaining time was to pay Lilas enough to satisfy her. The more he thought of this the more imperative seemed the necessity, but when he ventured to submit the proposition to Merkle the banker curtly refused to entertain it.
Sick with anxiety, weak at thought of the peril to his wife's health, Bob determined to call upon Max Melcher and demand immunity upon pain of violence. Accordingly he turned his steps in the direction of the Metropolitan Club. But as he neared his destination he found a crowd gathered in front of the place; two patrol-wagons were backed up to the curb opposite the gambling-house; a line of policemen streamed in and out of the premises. Some of the officers were armed with axes and sledges, others carried burdens that evoked jeers and taunts from the bystanders.
Doubting the evidence of his own eyes, Bob elbowed his way closer. It was true! The Metropolitan Club, the oldest, the safest, the best-protected palace of chance in the city, was the object of a daylight raid. Its sacred doors had been battered in, and the fragments of furniture that came out gave evidence that the raiders had used their destructive weapons with unusual violence. Racks of multi-colored ivory chips, faro-layouts, splintered remains of expensive roulette, crap, and poker tables of mahogany and rosewood were flung carelessly into the waiting wagons and driven away. Bob Wharton's amazement was shared by the onlookers, for nothing like this had even been known in the Tenderloin.
Bob was not a dull young man. In time a light broke through his troubled mind, and he returned to Broadway, lost in thought. Evidently Merkle's plan was working.
Adventures of moment had also fallen to the lot of Jimmy Knight on this day. Lacking the hospitality of Tony's back room, Jim had of late taken up loafing-quarters in a Seventh Avenue saloon, frequented by a coterie of parasitic young men who subsisted on the crowds which passed daily in and out of the Pennsylvania Station. On the very afternoon of the Melcher raid Jim was sitting at a table with one of these fellows, lending a willing ear to tales of easy money, when he felt a touch upon his shoulder and, looking up, found a plain-clothes man standing over him. The stranger wore no visible badge of authority, but Jim knew him instantly for what he was. In the background another person with the same indefinable stamp of the bull watched proceedings with an expressionless face.
Now Jim had the heart of a rabbit, and, being forever busy in "framing" some one, his first suspicion was that he himself was being framed. This suspicion proved all too correct. Never in his worst dreams had he experienced anything so distressing as what followed his arrest, for it seemed as if these officers cherished a personal grudge against him. They seemed prejudiced for no reason whatever, and they made their aversion patent in several professionally effective ways. Jim found his arms twisted backward and upward until his bones cracked and his joints came loose; with wrists pinioned behind his shoulder-blades and walking on his toes he was propelled into the street. Since this was his first arrest, he did not know enough to go quietly, and when one of his captors released his grip he tried to wrench himself loose. Cossacks could not mistreat a prisoner more brutally than these policemen mistreated poor, cringing, spineless Jimmy Knight. He reached the station-house more dead than alive, and then when he saw a loaded revolver removed from his own pocket he utterly collapsed. Weeping like a woman, he was led to a cell and left to meditate upon the inconsistencies and injustices of the Sullivan law.
As the hours crept by and his efforts to obtain assistance proved unavailing he began to understand something of Young Sullivan's and Armistead's feelings. Then light came to him; he learned of the disaster to the Metropolitan Club and immediately lost faith in Melcher's ability to help him, with the result that when he was finally led to Inspector Snell's office for the third degree he "squealed" promptly. In his panic to save himself he volunteered even more of his private history than the Inspector desired to hear, and was only too willing to make known all of the facts of the Hammon case. Nor did he withhold the truth about the present attempt at blackmailing Bob Wharton and Merkle; the first question along this line served to unlock his lips, and he whiningly laid bare the entire conspiracy. It seemed, however, that his earnest desire to help the law was scarcely appreciated, for even after he had blindly affixed his signature to the documents which Inspector Snell placed before him he was led back to his cell.
Rules were far from strict at Lilas Lynn's hotel. The employees were not over-courteous at any time, and, although in theory callers announced themselves by telephone before going up-stairs, this was a custom generally honored in the breach. No question, therefore, was raised when a heavily built, capable-looking man, with large hands and feet, inquired for Miss Lynn's room-number and stepped into the elevator without declaring his business.
Lilas herself opened the door at his knock, but showed some reluctance at admitting him until he murmured the magic word "Headquarters," whereupon she fell back with a look of startled inquiry in her eyes. The stranger did not trouble to remove his hat; after a swift inventory of the room he announced:
"The Inspector sent me to see you."
"What Inspector?"
"Snell."
"Yes?" Lilas's voice was badly controlled, for there was something disturbing about this man's behavior.
"Your orders is to leave town. Be out and away at eight o'clock; that's four hours. Understand?"
"You must be crazy," Lilas cried, with a show of spirit. "What have I done? Who do you think I am? Inspector Snell, eh? I don't know him, and he doesn't know me."
"I guess he knows you, all right. Eight bells, sister. I'll be back then."
"But—what for? I haven't done anything." Incensed at the fellow's total indifference, she ran on, fiercely: "I won't go. I'm no crook. You can't hustle me out like this. I'll fight. I've got friends and I've got money, and I'm going to stay right here. You haven't anything on me, for I haven't done anything. I'm behaving myself, and I'm clean. You can tell Inspector Snell so for me."
The policeman silently drew from his pocket an envelope, which he handed to her.
"Before you talk any louder suppose you give this the once over," he said.
Lilas glanced at the proffered package with a sneer.
"Bah! Don't you think I know a warrant?" Then, as she opened the envelope and scanned its contents, she started. To conceal the tremor of her hand she spread the documents upon her center-table and turned her back to the visitor. An odd rigidity crept over her. When she swung about to speak her voice was harsh, but her defiance had lessened.
"I don't understand—"
"Oh! I guess you do. Anyhow, the whole story's there. You see, Armistead spilled—that's why he jumped his bond; he was afraid of Melcher's gunmen. We got Sullivan, too. He was tough, but we got him finally; and as for Knight! Say, that little grafter sprained his wrist signing affidavits."
"Rot! You don't expect me to believe all this?" Lilas demanded, uncertainly. "Why, these confessions are probably phony. You dictated them yourself, for all I know. Anyhow, they don't mean anything to me."
"Well, you'd ought to know whether they do or not." The policeman calmly refolded the papers.
"What about Max? What does he say about this?"
"Oh, he takes it all right. He knows we've got it on him, and he knows when to lay down a hand. Max is a good sport. But I ain't here to swap gossip. If I was you I'd take it on the run; you can't win anything by sticking."
"I won't go," stormed the girl. "It's a put-up job to get me away."
"Have it your own way, but I'll be back at eight with a regular honest-to-goodness warrant." The officer nodded and walked out heavily.
When she was alone again Lilas felt as if her knees would give way. For the first time she realized that she had no single friend to whom she could turn or in whose assistance she could put faith. Before the plain-clothes man she had maintained a pretense of firmness, but it had been mere bravado, for in her soul she had known those documents to be authentic. Their contents proved them so, and, now that the police knew all, resistance was plainly futile.
During her last talk with Bob Wharton Lilas had felt unbounded confidence in her ability to go through with her plans, come what might, but now the mere knowledge that those plans were known changed everything. In common with all evil-doers, Lilas entertained an exaggerated distrust of the law and a keen fear of its trickeries. The fact that she had been betrayed, the fact that she now had the open hostility of the police to combat, convinced her that the game was up.
As she pondered the situation anger at the treachery of her confederates grew and caused her to forget her own intended treachery to them. Even while she was defying the officer she had begun to reconcile herself to the idea of flight, and now she set about her preparations.
Four hours! Well, they had given her time enough. Much could be done in four hours. Eight o'clock would see her well out from under the shadow of the law. The Law! Lilas sneered as she reflected that the law invariably shielded the rich and prosperous while it oppressed the poor and the needy.
Of late her periods of independence from cocaine were becoming shorter and of less frequent occurrence, and before she had proceeded far with her packing she found herself badly in need of stimulation. Her resistance was running low, it seemed. That splendid recklessness which had sustained her when she flung her demand at Bob was entirely gone now; she was oddly nervous and unstrung, so she turned to the white powders.
Their effect was prompt and pleasant, as always; they enabled her to lay vigorous hold once more upon her scattered faculties. As she flung her belongings into her trunk her first black regrets and disappointments began to lighten, and she found herself looking at the matter more philosophically. After all, things were never quite hopeless; she had played for big stakes and lost—through no fault of her own, but through the treachery of others. Well, this was not her first defeat, and certainly it would not be her last opportunity. She would pretend to yield; she would go away and wait. Yes, that was best. She could always return, and so long as her money lasted, so long as those blessed powders were available, she was assured of bodily and mental comfort at least. Meanwhile no one could rob her of her secret, and sometime, somehow it could be coined into money. Bob Wharton, John Merkle, the Hammon women, through their influence with the police, might exile her from New York, might hound her from place to place, but so long as she retained that secret they were all more or less in her power and could not deny her at least a comfortable living. She even smiled contemptuously as she looked back upon the way she had fooled Bob Wharton and the concern he had shown for Lorelei.
Then of a sudden Lilas awoke to the fact that she disliked—hated—Bob's wife. It seemed as if she had always hated her. Perhaps it was because of Lorelei's beauty or her superior ways, or—yes, because of her clean soul that nothing had been able to smirch. Character—what was it but hypocrisy, or a luxury upon which some people prided themselves? From Lorelei, Lilas's thoughts wandered naturally to Jim, thence to his companions, and finally to Max Melcher. One and all, those men, at the first hint of danger to themselves, had thrown her over and sought protection. That was man-like. It pleased her at this moment to call down punishments upon them and to imagine the forms those punishments would take if she possessed the power to inflict them. She owed those fellows something, and in particular she owed Max a grudge, for the whole scheme had been his.
The cocaine was working swiftly now; Lilas had reached the stage of exaggerated self-regard; her enmity toward Melcher grew with unnatural rapidity. She had evened more than one score in the past, she mused, why not even this one? In Jarvis Hammon's case, for instance, she had taken the law into her own hands and had exacted payment for a wrong that most people would have considered dead to vengeance. Truly, that had been a revenge! For a long time the memory of that night's events had been almost intolerable: the picture of that dim-lit library, of the staring, stricken face of her victim had more than once filled Lilas with such horror that she had taken refuge in double doses of cocaine; but now, strangely enough, she felt no repugnance whatever in looking back upon it. On the contrary, she was thrilled by the remembrance and exulted in her act without restraint. She fancied at this moment that she could feel the cold contact of the revolver against her palm, the leap of the exploding weapon, the fierce triumph that had flamed through her when Hammon had halted in his tracks, then withered and crumpled as his wound took effect. That had been an instant worth all the pain and risk it cost! She lived again through the white heat of it, but it left her unsatisfied.
There were others who had wronged her and who deserved the same fate as Hammon—Max Melcher, for instance. Max had been her evil counselor in all things, he had always used her as a tool, and now, like a tool which he no longer had use for, he cast her aside.
Lilas found herself pacing the floor in a peculiar emotional frenzy. Outwardly she was cool, inwardly she was a prey to the wildest and wickedest passions.
It is by the use of cocaine that most of the hired assassins of the East Side prepare themselves to kill. Taken in sufficient quantities, the drug tends to produce a homicidal mania in the consumer, at the same time leaving him in supersensitive control of his faculties. Mind and body are unnaturally stimulated by it. Whisky numbs a man's mind and makes his hands unsteady; cocaine not only crazes him, but lends him accuracy in shooting. Moreover, it deadens his sensibility, so that he goes on fighting even though riddled with wounds. Thus the use of this drug explains why the modern gunman is so deadly in his work and at the same time so difficult of capture, as it does the similar phenomena among the Southern negroes who, since they have been denied rum by state prohibition, have taken to cocaine.
Just how or when Lilas arrived at the determination to kill Max Melcher she did not know. The idea was there, full-grown and firmly fixed in her mind, when she discovered it. She began at once to shape its execution.
First she called Tony the Barber by 'phone, for now that the Metropolitan Club was closed she knew of no other way of discovering her victim's whereabouts. Max was not at the barber shop, she learned, but he would be there promptly at half past six o'clock for his shave. Yes, Tony declared, he always came there at that time; it was a habit of years' standing.
Lilas ordered her trunks sent down, paid her bill at the hotel, and then sought the nearest pawn shop. She had some difficulty in buying a revolver, but, succeeding at length, she returned to her room to arrange the final details of her plan.
That she had fixed upon Melcher rather than upon Bob or Merkle or some one else, can be explained only through the vagaries of a disordered mind, for, although the girl did not realize it, she was by this time quite out of her head. A desire as keen and as compelling as hunger clamored for Max's death, and it did not occur to her to resist it. Yet Lilas had no intention of sacrificing herself; much of the pleasure of the deed, she reflected, would result from a successful "get away," and therefore she craftily arranged her escape. She would drive to Tony's, so ran her plan, tell her taxi-cab driver to wait, then enter the place quietly and swiftly. Max would be stretched out in one of the chairs and quite unaware of her approach until she bent over him; he would gain no hint of her design until he felt her weapon against his body. Such a simple mode of procedure could not fail, and—this ferocious longing to kill would be satisfied. In the confusion following the shot, Lilas reasoned, it would be easy to slip out of the place, step into her taxi and drive to the station. Once she was lost in that crowded place who could apprehend her? In half an hour she would be out of the state.
There still remained some time to wait and, to guard herself against a diminution of the drug's effect, she took another liberal dose. After a time this resulted in an added intensity of concentration, an even greater mental activity and strength of purpose. She felt equal to anything, afraid of nothing in heaven or earth.
For fear that Max might anticipate his regular time of arrival she again telephoned to Tony, but, learning that he had not done so, she gossiped briefly with the barber, discussing the raid on the Metropolitan, the misfortunes that had overtaken their mutual friends, and other topics of interest. She realized from Tony's laughter that she was talking with unusual wit and brilliance.
Her buoyancy was becoming a trifle oppressive now, so she rang off, and a few moments later discovered that her last inhalation of the drug was beginning to affect her heart. Before long its palpitation had become unpleasant, though not alarming as yet and probably no more than a passing phase. However, since ample time remained, she decided to lie down. The reclining position gave her some relief, but that odd, nightmarish over-stimulation continued; in fact, it increased until it became almost unbearable. She closed her eyes only to behold a whirling confusion of shapes and visions. Gradually her mind became peopled by distorted fancies. The moments crept on and the phantasmagoria continued… Lilas realized at last that she was ill. She was confused, hysterical, wretched. She tried to rise, but failed… She found herself swimming through space; blinding lights and choking vapors enveloped her. She noted with a dull sense of alarm that her heart was skipping; this frightened her into calling for help, but her voice sounded weak and unreal… Everything was unreal; objects in the room were distorted and queer… What was it that so terrified her? … Was it death?